Dark Omen: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel

by Erickson, J. R.

  “Gracie,” she whispered, echoing the name of the supposed friend Crystal had seen at Sacred Grounds the day she disappeared.

  Stunned, Bette dropped the cup and ran back into the retirement home.

  Linda had returned to the lobby with Jessica.

  “I need to use your phone,” Bette panted.

  The woman eyed her and shook her head. “Sorry, we don’t permit guest use of the phone. If there were to be emergency…”

  “Give me your damn phone!” Bette shrieked, and she dove at the desk, dialing the operator.

  Linda looked furious, as if she might snatch the phone from Bette’s hand, but Jessica had stopped filling out her paperwork, alarmed as the scene unfolded.

  Not ready to lose a prospective client, Linda plastered on her faux smile and swept across the room.

  “Let’s move into the sun room,” she told Jessica.

  “How may I direct your call?” the operator asked.

  “I need the number for Sacred Grounds Coffee in East Lansing, Michigan.”

  “One moment please, I’m connecting you.”

  “Sacred Grounds,” a woman answered, and Bette’s heart dropped into her stomach.

  “Is Rick there?” she asked.

  “Umm…, you know what? I think he just left.”

  “No,” Bette screamed. “Run to the parking lot. If he’s still there, get him, please. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Whoa, okay. Hold on.”

  A minute passed, two.

  Bette pulled at her hair and gritted her teeth.

  “This is Rick,” he said.

  When his voice came on the phone, Bette sputtered and tripped over her words.

  A jumbled nothing came out.

  “Hello? Anyone there?”

  “Rick, don’t hang up,” Bette yelled. “This is Bette Childs. Was her name Greta? Crystal’s friend who was in the coffee shop the last day you saw her?”

  The man didn’t speak. Bette imagined him trying to piece together her frantic question.

  When he spoke, Bette’s spine went rigid with fear.

  “Yes!” Rick exclaimed. “That’s it. I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember it. Greta.”

  Bette hung up and dialed Officer Hart’s number by memory.

  “Hart?” Bette demanded before anyone spoke.

  “You’ve got him.”

  “It’s Bette.”

  The man paused. “Hi Bette. I wish I had some news-”

  “I have news,” she cut him off. “It wasn’t Wes. It was his wife, Hillary. I’m sure of it, Hart. The things I’ve learned about that woman. You’ve got to arrest her. Wes is in danger too. I’d bet my life on it.”

  “Wait, wait. Bette, we already interviewed Hillary Meeks. I told you, she was half a state away from East Lansing. She couldn’t have done anything to your sister. She didn’t even know she existed, Bette.”

  “She lied! Understand? She’s a liar. She’s murdered before,” Bette insisted, knowing she sounded manic, but unable to calm her voice.

  “Bette…” His tone told her everything she needed to know. He didn’t believe her.

  Bette hung up once more. She didn’t have time to convince him.

  She dialed Weston’s number in Lansing. He didn’t answer.

  She hung up and dug through her purse searching for her little flip notebook. When she didn’t find it, she dumped the entire purse on Linda’s desk. Her fingers flew across the contents, snatching up the little blue notebook.

  She searched for the number she’d written down. The home phone number of Hillary and Weston Meek’s house in Traverse City.

  The phone rang three times. The answering machine would pick up. Any minute she’d hear the crisp voice of Hillary Meeks telling her to leave a message.

  Instead, Weston Meeks answered.

  “Hello?” he sounded breathless.

  “Weston. It’s Bette.”

  “Did you find Crystal?” his voice was desperate, strained.

  “No, but listen, Wes, I think… Fuck it. I think your wife is behind this. I think Hillary did something to Crystal.”

  Silence.

  She expected him to disagree, to say she was talking crazy.

  “Me too,” he whispered.

  Bette was stunned and, for a moment, said nothing. Finally, her brain kicked back into action.

  “Where is she? Where’s Hillary right now?” Bette demanded.

  “I don’t know. I got sick again last night,” Weston confessed. “I think she’s drugging me. When I woke up, I was totally out of it. Her car was gone. She hasn’t been back.”

  “She’s dangerous, Wes. You need to get out of your house.”

  “No,” he snapped. “No. I need her to come back. I need…” He paused, and when he spoke again, he sounded as if he’d had a brilliant idea. “I need her to drug me again. I’ll pretend to eat what she gives me, and then I’ll follow her. I’ll—”

  “What? No, that’s crazy. If she knows—”

  But before she could finish her statement, he interrupted her. “I’ve got to go.”

  Bette listened to the click as he hung up. She stared at the phone in her hand, incredulous. She clicked the button and re-dialed his number. It was busy. She tried again, and then a third time.

  “No,” she shouted, banging the phone against the side table. The small plastic mouthpiece broke off and dangled from a series of wires.

  “Shit,” she muttered, quickly screwing it back on.

  Linda poked her head from the other room, fixing Bette with a glare, but when Bette offered her own wild stare, the woman quickly ducked out of sight.

  Bette had to drive. She was still an hour north of Traverse City.

  53

  June 25, 1991

  Crystal heard the knob turn and knew death had come for her. If she had a mirror to gaze into, she’d see the black shadow had descended.

  The knob rattled, but no key turned in the lock.

  “Crystal?” Weston’s voice whispered through the door.

  Crystal lurched to the side of her bed.

  “Wes,” she croaked.

  She would have cried if there’d been water enough in her body to shed a tear.

  “Oh God,” he murmured.

  The knob didn’t rattle this time. A loud splintering sound came from the door as he kicked it. The door didn’t burst open. He kicked it again, and the wood cracked. The third time, his foot broke a hole through the center of the door.

  He peered in.

  Crystal fell from the bed and crawled toward him.

  “Oh Crystal, oh Jesus. Hold on, just hold on.”

  He put his hands through the hole and grabbed the splintered edges, ripping the wood back. Only a small piece broke away, and he swore.

  “Stay back, Crystal. Okay? Let me try to get this door off.”

  He kicked close to the frame. The door groaned but held. He kicked it again, howling angrily as the frame bent and pushed slightly into the room. He kicked it a final time, and it crashed inward taking the door with it. It landed with a bang in the middle of the floor.

  Crystal braced her bound hands on the mattress and tried to stand. She couldn’t pull herself up.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Weston moaned, kneeling in front of her. He brushed the hair from her face and wrapped his arms around her. “What did she do to you?”

  Crystal wanted to hug him back. She wanted to scream with joy and burst into tears. None of it happened. She lay limp in his arms.

  “Have to go,” she moaned, gazing terrified at the open doorway.

  He glanced back, recognized the fear etched in her face and nodded.

  “Yeah, okay, we’re going.” He scooped her up and ran from the room and down the stairs.

  She almost laughed when she saw his jeep parked in the high grass.

  He pulled open the passenger door, sliding her into the seat.

  Crystal lifted her wrists.

  “Shit,
yeah, sorry,” he murmured, reaching beneath the seat and pulling out his hunting knife. He cut the ties and kissed the red welts on her skin.

  Weston ran around to the driver’s door and climbed in.

  “Shit,” he muttered as he reached for the ignition.

  “I left the keys inside. Be right back.”

  She reached for him but his shirt slid out of her grasp.

  They couldn’t leave without the keys, but a wave of horror engulfed her as he disappeared back into the house.

  Seconds ticked by and then minutes. Crystal watched the door, hands squeezed together, her breath whistling between her gritted teeth.

  He didn’t come out.

  After an eternity, the door swung open, and she moaned, relieved. But it wasn’t Weston who emerged from the house.

  Greta, blood spattered, stalked across the porch, her face a mask of fury.

  Crystal fumbled to lock the door, hit the wrong button, and unlocked it instead.

  Greta yanked the passenger door open and grabbed Crystal by the hair, dragging her from the car.

  * * *

  Bette nearly crashed into the old caretaker’s house when she spotted Weston’s car.

  Instead of hitting the brake, she slammed on the gas and her car lurched forward. She shifted to the left pedal and the bumper stopped inches from the peeled white paint on the front corner of the dilapidated farmhouse.

  Bette turned off the car and stepped out. Nothing stirred, no breeze, no sounds from within the house.

  The day was overbright, the sun blinding her.

  “Maribelle, come here!” The voice came from nowhere, loud and commanding. A man’s voice.

  Bette spun around, expecting to see a man standing on the porch, but it remained empty. Paint peeling, windows boarded or covered in plastic. The house had been abandoned for a long time.

  As she turned back to the desolate yard and the forest beyond, she glimpsed the back of a young girl running away, heading towards a barely visible trail in the weeds. As she watched, the girl faded and then vanished. She didn’t disappear into the woods. She actually vanished, her entire being dissolving in the air around her.

  Bette almost followed the trail of the vanishing child, but goose bumps rose on her arms and neck, and she remembered Crystal.

  Terrified, Bette turned and walked to the house.

  Adrenaline cast the world into hyperfocus. She saw every board of the rotting porch. A bulky, gray wasps’ nest clung to the overhang in the roof's corner. She wrenched the door open and inhaled the musty scent of mold and the acrid scent of bleach.

  * * *

  Crystal walked and then fell, shaking and grabbing at her head to lessen the pain of Greta’s hand clutching and dragging her through the forest. Crystal crawled, managed to find her feet, and stumbled behind Greta.

  “You ruined everything,” Greta spat. “Ruined fucking everything.”

  “Did—?” Crystal cried out, trying to prise Greta’s hands from her hair. “Did you kill him?” Uttering the words felt nearly impossible. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the streaks of red on Greta’s white blouse.

  Greta turned, teeth bared, and attacked her. She slapped and clawed at Crystal’s face, screaming.

  Crystal fell and curled into a ball. Weak, so weak, her head pounding, she tried to shield the baby who was probably already dead inside of her.

  “It should have been you,” Greta screamed, pounding on Crystal’s back with both her fists.

  When she finally stopped, Crystal peered up at the deranged woman.

  Greta’s eyes were no longer gray. They’d gone black.

  “Walk,” she hissed, pulling out a bloody knife. “Walk or I’ll open you right here.”

  Crystal struggled onto her hands and knees and back to her feet. She limped through the woods, legs screaming, lungs burning.

  When they emerged in the hilltop graveyard, Crystal knew the end had come. Death waited in this field, and it would not go home alone.

  “Go,” Greta spat, waving the knife at Crystal and forcing her forward.

  Crystal saw the hole when they were several feet away. It was a black chasm cut into the green grass.

  * * *

  The still, hot day, the vegetation green and bursting. Thorns and brambles pricked Bette’s bare legs as she ran down the trail, eyes darting from the dampened grass to the crowded forest before her.

  She wanted to call out, to scream Crystal’s name, but feared she’d seal her sister’s fate if Hillary knew someone was after her.

  Bette’s hands were sticky from Weston’s blood.

  The adrenaline, the fear-strength, had subsided, and her legs grew wobbly beneath her. Bits of black, like flies, dotted the edge of her vision. She knew those spots. They were not insects of the forest, but the parasites of her own nervous system, the noxious little invaders trying to steal in and seize control of her body. They wanted to force her face into the lush grass where she would fight for breath until she passed out.

  Bette lost the trail of trampled grass and realized they’d turned somewhere. She backtracked, panting, shaking.

  “There,” she whispered, spotting a fern crushed to the forest floor.

  When she broke through the trees into a clearing, the sight before Bette weaved and threatened to disappear into the black hole of panic.

  It was a grassy field, devoid of trees. Several small grassy hills poked from the earth.

  At the far end, Hillary Meeks stood, sweat glistening on her pale, determined face.

  She held a shovel in her hand.

  A mound of fresh dirt lay piled beside her. She sank the shovel down, scooped and released a cascade of dirt into a dark hole.

  Bette’s mouth fell open and a scream of terror and grief erupted from her throat.

  Hillary swiveled around. Her face twisted into an angry scowl that made her look like a demon who’d clawed its way up from Hell and was filling in the portal it had used to escape.

  “Crystal…” Bette breathed.

  Hillary clutched the shovel like a baseball bat as she strode across the clearing toward Bette.

  “I’ve called the police,” Bette shouted. “If you kill me…” she stammered, her throat suddenly dry, “they’ll…” But she didn’t finish the sentence because the mention of the police had not caused so much as a flicker in Hillary’s face.

  The woman was insane.

  Bette turned and ran back into the trees. She ducked behind a thick beech tree and held her breath.

  The adrenaline was back. A hot surge burst in her legs and tried to propel her away from the tree and into the forest.

  Run, it shrieked, but she held her ground.

  Quietly, she lifted the canister of wasp repellant she’d taken from the house.

  She placed her index finger on the little plastic spray nozzle, and her hand shook as she held it in front of her.

  A twig, only feet away, cracked beneath a shoe.

  Then another, closer.

  Bette didn’t wait; she lunged out and pressed the nozzle, sending an acrid stream in Hillary’s direction. The burst hit her in the chest, and Bette lifted the can directing it at her face.

  Hillary screamed and swung the shovel, but the repellant blinded her. The blade hit the beech tree and sank into the wood. Hillary tried to pull it free, but her eyes were screwed shut, and she wrenched her hand from the shovel to swipe at her face.

  Bette dropped the canister.

  She ran past Hillary, who had dropped to her knees and was shoving leaves and dirt into her face to scrub away the toxic spray.

  Bette nearly plunged over the side when she reached the hole. It was deep, four feet at least.

  She climbed in and started scooping handfuls of dirt. As she threw the dirt behind her, she imagined Crystal curled up, her body ice cold.

  When her fingers finally brushed fabric, Bette released the sob that had been trapped in her chest. She grabbed hold of the fabric and pulled.

 
Crystal’s shoulders and head rose from the dirt. Her eyes were closed, but her skin was warm. Dirt filled her nostrils.

  “Please, please be alive,” Bette cried, as she struggled up out of the grave, pulling Crystal with her.

  Trying to remember the CPR training they’d both received at the YMCA as teenagers, Bette turned Crystal over and brushed at her face and nose. She flipped her onto her back and started chest compressions.

  “One-two–three-four…” she muttered as she thumped Crystal’s breastbone.

  When she reached fifteen, she paused, tilted Crystal’s head back, and blew two gusts of breath into her sister’s mouth.

  Nothing happened.

  Her sister didn’t gasp for breath. Her eyes didn’t fly open.

  Crystal lay limp on the ground.

  Bette’s fingers shook as she searched for a pulse —nothing.

  She shifted her hands back to Crystal’s chest and repeated the compressions.

  Bette pushed another two breaths into Crystal’s slack mouth and returned her hands to her sister’s chest. As she leaned down to start her third set of breaths, the shovel hit her square in the back. The impact made her head snap, and she bit her tongue painfully.

  Before Hillary could hit her a second time, Bette fell forward, sprawling across Crystal’s lifeless body. The blade cut the air inches above her head.

  Bette lurched sideways as Hillary arced the shovel a third time.

  The woman’s eyes were puffy, the skin on her face shiny and raw. She gritted her teeth as she tightened her grip and stepped toward Bette, raising the shovel over her head. She’d positioned it so the tip pointed straight down at Bette’s chest.

  Behind Hillary, at the edge of the clearing, Bette saw movement. She strained her eyes toward the figures and realized Weston was coming towards them, limping and bloody. A small girl with cascading black hair tugged on his hand as if encouraging him onward.

  Bette kicked her legs out. Her feet connected with Hillary’s shins, but like a statue, the woman didn’t move. Barely a grimace crossed her mouth as the shovel started its downward spike.

  Weston was nearly there now.

  Bette screamed and tried to twist away as the shovel plunged toward her. She hunched forward and closed her eyes, expecting to feel the blade sink into her flesh.